Today's poems [10.16.18]

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Part 12 of 12
   
                    His bunghole was blown back to Sparta,
                            
                    Where they buried the rest of our farter,
                            With a gravestone of turds
                            Inscribed with the words:
                            
                    "To the Fine Art of Farting, A Martyr."
                            

My Very First Time



                        The sky was dark
                        The moon was high
                        All alone just she and I
                        Her hair was soft
                        Her eyes were blue
                        I knew just what
                        She wanted to do
                        Her skin so soft
                        Her legs so fine
                        I ran my fingers
                        Down her spine
                        I didn't know how
                        But I tried my best
                        I started by placing
                        My hands on her breast
                        I remember my fear
                        My fast beating heart
                        But slowly she spread
                        Her legs apart
                        And when I did it
                        I felt no shame
                        All at once
                        The white stuff came
                        At last it's finished
                        It's all over now
                        My first time ever
                        At milking a cow.....

There once was a writer named Twain
Who had a peculiar stain
Surrounding the head
Of his prick, it was red
And it was said to wash off in the rain. 

There was a young fellow named Simon
Who tried to discover a hymen.
But he found every girl
Had relinguished her pearl
In exchange for a solitaire diamond. 

                    We once had a clerk named Pyle
                            
                    Who had an affair with our file.
                            'Twas strewn askew
                            From K through Q,
                            
                    And the P's were all sticky and vile.
                            

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